Don't push it
by lucelafonde
Summary: The death of Ronald Adair is interesting, mainly because Mycroft cares. So John naturally gets involved. When he discovers Sherlock is not as dead as he thought, it's time to face some feelings for once.  post-Reichenbach, The Empty House


This basically takes place after this story: .net/s/7716977/1/The_little_that_remains

You should be able to read this without the other one, but I don't guarantee it.

Quick summary: Sherlock falls off the roof of St. Barts with Moriarty. For all intents and purposes, they're dead. If you wanna know the rest, read the other story.

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><p>The sudden and inexplicable death of Ronald Adair in the spring of 2012 seemed to interest media, common folk and royalty alike. And with royalty I mean Mycroft.<p>

I knew that because I happened to overhear a conversation between him and someone – presumably very important – on the phone. Well, I say overhear.

Let's just stick with that version of the story, shall we?

Anyway, I overheard Mycroft mention the name Ronald Adair on one of his occasional visits he'd felt obliged to make ever since Sherlock died. I assume he did so (visit, not talk on the phone) because he felt guilty about deceiving me. You know. When he was aware of Sherlock's plan to sacrifice himself for the greater good and didn't tell me about it.

But I'm getting off-topic again.

Ronald Adair. Apparently important, otherwise Mycroft wouldn't be interested in him. I was no Sherlock Holmes, but over the months we spent together, even I was bound to pick up some of his methods, and just as I'd always prided myself with knowing the consulting Detective like no one else did, I had reached a point were I was willing to claim the same thing about his brother.

Considering Mycroft took off after that phone call, the business he'd been discussing must have been of utmost importance. I knew that. What I didn't know was who that poor sod he'd had under surveillance was, so I did the obvious thing and searched for him.

I say 'obvious thing'. It might not have been the most logical course of action for anyone else, but it certainly was for me. Ever since Sherlock's death I'd been following the crimes section in the papers most eagerly. He would have been proud. I'd never been THAT interested when he'd still been around.

I saw Lestrade every now and then, we'd grown to be good friends over the months, and whenever he mentioned a case he was working on it was more than just a little hurtful when he refused to tell me the details about it. Granted, he wasn't allowed to spill them, but with Sherlock it wouldn't have been a problem. We both knew that.

So you can imagine my excitement when I sensed an adventure approaching. I had no delusions about me being of any help with whatever problem Mycroft was having, but I still shivered with anticipation at the thought of being involved.

Finding Adair was even less hard than I'd imagined. Apparently he hailed from an aristocratic family and was living with his girlfriend in a mansion in one of London's most noble districts.

Which would explain why Mycroft was interested in him.

As soon as the older Holmes had gone, I googled Mister Adair, found out where he lived, and decided a walk would be JUST the thing for me right now.

Please don't judge me.

I realized of course that it would be considered weird of me to be lurking around someone's house – in the middle of the day no less – but I couldn't stop myself from doing it. I convinced myself I just wanted to take a look at the mansion and then go, but I knew this was a lie and I was indescribably glad when I didn't have to come up with a better one.

Because Ronald Adair was dead.

When I saw Lestrade talking to some officer outside the house, I took the opportunity as it presented itself and walked up to him. He looked at me in disbelief, but allowed me to approach.

"What the hell are you doing here, John?" he asked, clearly surprised.

"I've just strolled around the neighbourhood," I shrugged. "Then I saw this. Thought it might be interesting."

"I shall be damned..." he muttered and slowly shook his head. "Well, if you're here anyway... But DON'T tell anyone I told you this!"

"Would I ever?" I smirked.

Lestrade informed me about some facts you should probably be aware of:

Ronald Adair used to play cards. A lot. Some people would have said he suffered from an addiction and called him a gambler, but this wasn't the case. He knew when to quit and almost never lost anyway. At least not much. Plus, he'd made thousands in partnership with Colonel Moran a few weeks before, so money really couldn't have been an issue.

On the night of his death, he was out playing with Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran in a famous club. He lost hardly anything, and returned home at 10pm.

When his girlfriend came home from a night out with her friends, she found the door to their room locked from the inside. Yelling and pounding didn't get Mr. Adair to open the door, so she naturally worried about his well-being and called up a friend, who lived in the neighbourhood, and together they managed to break the door open.

The boyfriend was dead, as I mentioned, lying near his desk opposite the window with a bullet-hole in his head.

The police gathered he'd been checking his finances on his computer when he died, but as for the weapon: there was none.

Two important things captured everyone's attention:

Firstly, Ronald Adair had had no reason to lock the door to begin with. He was alone at home, so he couldn't have been trying to keep his girlfriend out. The police theorized the killer might have locked it, and then jumped out of the window, but the height would have made that impossible. Also, there would be tracks if someone had landed there, which was not the case.

So it must have been Ronald who locked the door, but why?

Besides, how did the killer get in?

Another theory was that he shot through the window, but that seemed impossible. Firstly, there was no doubt about the murder weapon being a revolver. Long distance shots like that would indeed be miraculous, and even if they weren't: the street was very lively, at every time of night, since there was a taxi stand, and someone would have heard something, which they didn't. So that wasn't possible either.

Lestrade didn't have to say it, I realized immediately that we both missed Sherlock more than ever in this case. He would have known what happened. He would have made some snide remark and told us how stupid we were, then he'd told us about all his amazing deductions, the police would have gotten all the credit and we'd have had lunch.

But that wasn't an option any longer, we had to accept that.

I wished Lestrade good luck with the case and left the crime scene. A fair amount of curious onlookers had gathered by now, and it proved to be incredibly hard to make my way through them. As I tried, I accidentally stumbled into a geeky guy with huge glasses, long, untamed hair, which covered the half of his face that wasn't covered by his fluffy beard, worn-out jeans, a shirt about some sci-fi show (Doctor Who?) that did nothing to hide his pale skin, and a cup of coffee.

Or rather, he USED TO HAVE a cup of coffee be the time our bodies collided.

To be fair: I got most of it on my clothes. So there really was no reason for him to give me a cranky look, some swearword I'd rather not repeat and the cold ignorance of the thousand apologies I was rambling.

"Hey, I said I'm sorry!" I half-yelled. "It was an accident!"

He just snorted and turned around to leave.

"Look," I said quickly and grabbed his arm. "I can buy you a new one if you'd like."

For the duration of a heartbeat, he stared at me like I was from another Galaxy (which was kind of ironic, given the nature of his shirt). Once he recovered from the shock of actual human contact, he shook off my hand and left with such a hurry, I felt a bit offended. Did I smell funny? Did I look like some kind of weirdo who was planning his impending murder?

I just shook my head in confusion and returned to my humble flat.

No, I do not mean Baker Street.

I'd moved out of there a month after Sherlock's death, when I realized I couldn't bear the memories any longer. Besides, even though he left me everything, I didn't feel like I should be owning any of it, least of all his money. So I found another, much smaller, much quieter place of my own. Mrs. Hudson had been heartbroken when I'd told her about my decision, but she understood and promised she wouldn't touch any of Sherlock's things, for she was sure I'd be back before the year was over.

Maybe she was right. Maybe I WOULD be back eventually. It had only been a couple of months, after all.

As I was just settling down in front of my laptop, with the intention of finding out more about Mr. Adair, I heard someone knock on my door.

Now, that was most unusual. No one ever came to visit me without a heads-up. I knew for a fact that Mycroft was busy (besides, he'd only been here this morning), Lestrade was at work and Harry never came over at all.

Suspicious, I opened the door and experienced the smaller of two surprises that happened in the next five minutes.

It was the geek, who's coffee I'd spilled before. My shock upon discovering him on my doorstep must have shown visibly on my face, for he smiled bashfully down at me (he was quite a bit taller) and nervously scratched his beard.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "This seemed like a better idea in my head."

I just looked at him in return, unable to come up with an articulate answer.

"As I was just going to leave, I realized I must have behaved in an incredibly rude way. I meant to apologize to you, but you were already gone, so I asked the Inspector I noticed you talking to earlier about your address," he offered as an explanation.

"And he just gave it to you?" I asked in disbelief.

"Of course not," he smirked. "I managed to get a hold of his phone when he wasn't looking."

"How did you know whom to look for?"

"Oh, I got him to spill the name earlier in the conversation," he shrugged. "May I come in?"

"You just showed up at my doorstep, a complete stranger, ADMITTING you stole an officer's mobile," I summed up.

"That's about it, yeah," he nodded.

"And you expect me to let you in?" I asked to make sure we understood each other.

"I do, yes."

"Why on earth would I do THAT?" I enquired and crossed my arms in front of my chest.

"I could fix your computer-problem for you," he said and pointed at my laptop. I turned my back to him for a second to see what he meant, and when I faced him again, I was looking into the bright blue eyes of my friend Sherlock Holmes.

He was just standing there, smiling like a lunatic, waiting for my reaction.

It came.

One, two steps. That's all it took. Then I hit him square in the face.

He was just as surprised at that as me. He tumbled backwards in shock and looked at me with his best puppy-impression. He leaned on the wall of the hallway, opposite my door.

It took another two steps for me to reach him now.

I grabbed him by that ridiculous shirt with all the force I was able to bring up and pressed our lips together.

That shocked him even more than the punch.

He stood there with widened eyes for the whole duration of the kiss, not moving an inch, not pulling away, not leaning into it. Eventually, I gave up and turned to the door with a sigh.

"Bastard..." I muttered just loud enough for him to hear and walked into the room. When I realized he was still standing there, frozen in place, I shook my head in exasparation. "Are you coming in or what?"

That seemed to get him out of his torpidity. He nodded and walked in before me. I closed the door and leaned against it while he was taking in my accommodations.

"Nice... place you have here," he said uncertain and sat down on my bed, which was the only thing I owned that could be sat on, really.

"Hmpf," I snorted and fixated him with the most murderous gaze I could muster.

"John..." he started, unsure how to finish.

"Don't 'John' me," I said angrily, not moving from the door.

"I realize what this must look like..."

"Did Mycroft know?" I interrupted him with closed eyes.

"Wh..."

"Just answer, Sherlock," I sighed.

"Well," he shifted uncomfortably. "I obviously needed someone to help me stay undercover and provide me with money."

"At least that explains the incredible amount of guilt he seems to hold for me. I figured letting you kill yourself couldn't be the only thing that was troubling him."

"Now, he didn't..." Sherlock tried to defend his brother, but gave up very quickly. "Okay, yes, I admit it. I've had better plans. Plans that didn't involve Mycroft."

I snorted.

"But I never meant to hurt you, John," he whispered and looked at the floor.

"Well, you did, smartass!" I yelled and hit the wall in anger. Sherlock flinched, but still didn't look up at me. "You made me believe you were dead!"

"I know," his voice was almost inaudible. "I'm sorry."

"That's not enough, Sherlock," I hissed.

"I know. I couldn't blame you if you decided never to speak to me again," he mumbled. "But please understand that I had to do what I did in order to keep you safe!"

"Me? Safe?" I laughed bitterly. "No one is safe around you, Sherlock. You should have realized that by now."

"I have!" he said now angry too and rose from the bed. "That's why I had to stage my own death! To make you leave! To get you away from me! You would have died if I wouldn't have left you!"

"So YOU died. SO much better," I said ironically and watched him approach me. He shook with anger and his eyes didn't leave mine for a second.

"It was the lesser of two evils," he said, pronouncing each word with forced calmness.

"So why did you come back then?" I asked, raising my eyebrows unconvinced. "To mock me?"

"No," he said slowly and came to a halt just in front of me.

"Why?" I whispered, scared to hear the answer.

"Because I thought I could do it," he said silently. "I thought I could stay away from you. But I can't. When I saw you in front of Adair's house, and you talked to me like you always did, not even aware that it was me you were talking to... I couldn't wait any longer. I couldn't bear not to see you. I'm sorry, John."

"For what?" I breathed and he smiled sadly at me in return.

"For this," he said and closed the last few inches between us.

Our lips touched like they did before, only softer this time, careful. It was my turn to be gobsmacked now. I froze like he did not so long ago, but other than him, I recovered quickly and grabbed him by his hips to drag him into a tight embrace. He flinched in surprise, but didn't pull away. Eventually, one of his hands found its way into my hair, whilst the other rested against the door in my back.

The kiss didn't last as long as I would have liked, but it was good to know the other man knew how to do it and, more importantly, wasn't appalled by the idea to do it with me.

"Well," I said, shifting awkwardly. "Good thing we got that out of the way."

"Indeed." He smiled fondly.

"How long have you known?" I asked.

"Known what?"

"That I was in love with you," I explained.

"I didn't," he chuckled. "But thanks for telling me anyway."

"What do you mean 'you didn't know'?" I asked confused. "Why else would you kiss me?"

"John, you're not making any sense," he tilted his head at me. "One doesn't kiss someone because that someone is in love with one. I would actually go so far and say it's the exact other way around."

I went very still for a few seconds.

"Does that..."

"Shut up, John," he interrupted me, but I noticed he'd blushed a bit.

"Do you..."

"Don't push it," he warned me, but contrary to his harsh words, he started caressing my cheek absent-mindedly.

"Okay then," I sighed and enjoyed the touch.

"I read your blog," he said after a while.

"Before you say anything, keep in mind that you weren't supposed to ever see it. At all. You were dead, remember?" I said quickly.

"It's a bit hard to forget," he said. "Anyway, I... it wasn't so bad."

"Meaning?" I pushed him.

"Meaning it was better than all the other crap you'd written so far," he said, but there was a smile on his face as he did so.

"Oh, shut up," I punched him lightly in the side. "How DID you survive though?"

"You'll have to make do with the short version, I'm afraid," he said as he checked the time on his watch. "We're running late."

"Do we have to be somewhere?" I asked confused.

"In a manner of speaking," he said vaguely. "So! Me. Dead. Not. Yes. Okay." He seemed to think about it. "The short version is: I didn't fall. So I didn't die. End of story, let's go!"

He tried to grab my wrist, but I skilfully evaded.

"Sherlock," I growled dangerously. "You'll have to do better than this. I saw you. I saw your dead body. I held your hand, for God's sake!"

"Yes, I... noticed..." He sighed. "Okay, look: Me and Moriarty were standing on the roof. I managed to grab him. We both fell. Contrary to him though, I was able to hold on to a windowsill on my way down. I had to act quickly. That was THE opportunity. I got down with much more grace than Moriarty, hit my head on the brick wall on purpose, so it'd look like I hit the ground too, called up my brother so he'd arrange for my disappearance before I'd reach the morgue, and then lay down beside my nemesis. When the ambulance arrived, I controlled my breathing in a way I'd learned in India years ago, which also slowed my pulse down. No one who glanced at me would have known I was alive, and no one checked, because the paramedics had been sent by my brother, specifically told NOT to."

"So you..." I cleared my throat. "You were conscious the whole time?"

"Indeed, I was," he nodded.

"But why didn't I suspect anything? I'm a Doctor, dammit! I should have known!" I said, angry at myself.

"My dear John..." He shook his head slowly, a fond smile on his lips. "Of course you didn't notice. How could you? You were too distracted by the fact that your friend had fallen off an incredibly high building. You were convinced you had lost me. Mycroft took you away before you could notice anything or I gave up my cover willingly."

"You would have done that?" I asked.

"I almost did," he admitted. "Mycroft must have sensed it. I think I twitched under your touch."

"Imagine that," I said. We stayed silent for a minute or two, then Sherlock suddenly sprang into action again.

"But what are we doing?" he asked alarmed. "We should be gone by now! Come along, John!"

He grabbed my wrist and this time, I let him.

* * *

><p>I followed Sherlock into the flat opposite our old one in Baker Street. It was empty, probably without a tenant at the time. We positioned ourselves on either side of the window.<p>

"Look at our old rooms, John, but be careful not to be seen!" he told me and I followed his order.

What I saw there, sitting in my friends old armchair, took me by surprise.

"But... that's you!" I exclaimed, looking at him in confusion.

"No," he said slowly, but with that arrogant smirk of his. "That's a wax figure that LOOKS like me."

"But..."

"Hush now, John," he said. "Listen: There's someone after me. The only other person, save Mycroft, who knew about my being alive, was one of Moriarty's most dangerous henchmen. His men have been looking for me ever since I disappeared. They've been watching these rooms very closely, just waiting for me to arrive. Today, I did. I positioned the figure there and asked Mrs. Hudson to move it every now and then, without being seen, of course, so they would fall for it. I expect them to try to get rid of me tonight. And that's why we're here. We want to catch them in action."

He was just about to say something else, when we heard steps behind us. Panicked, Sherlock and I hid in the walk-in closet and watched a dark figure approach the very window we'd been standing at moments ago.

I exchanged a quick look with Sherlock, who just shrugged, and then we concentrated on the other man.

He positioned some big parts of something metallic on the floor in front of him and eventually pulled out a gun, which he connected to the construction he'd just built. Then he shot at the fake Holmes through the window.

That was the moment the real one and I jumped into action. We attacked the man and together, we managed to restrain him enough for Sherlock to text someone.

It turned out to be Lestrade, who'd just been waiting for this moment to burst in around the street corner. He put handcuffs on the shooter, who turned out to be Colonel Moran, the very same man who'd played cards with Ronald Adair on the day of his death.

Sherlock informed us about the fact that the Colonel used to be the best heavy game shot in the army the country had ever seen. As it turned out, he was also the one who killed Mr. Adair. With the exact same weapon he had used to shoot at the wax-Sherlock. His motive apparently was easy to deduce – at least for Sherlock: Ronald Adair had found out that Moran cheated at card games and threatened to expose him in their club. He meant to give the money he had won together with the Colonel in an – as he perceived – unfair way, back to its original owners, so he locked the door, in case his girlfriend would come in and demand to know what he was doing.

The murder weapon was a special sort of air-gun that had been specifically designed for Moriarty years ago. Revolver bullets fit in it. With that, the case of Ronald Adair was closed, Lestrade and his men taking the Colonel away with them.

As for Sherlock and I: We got back to Baker Street, welcomed by an overly joyous Mrs. Hudson, and eventually (when she FINALLY let us go) we found ourselves in the living room.

"It's just as I left it," Sherlock remarked.

"You couldn't possibly have thought I'd actually TOUCH your stuff," I said. "Who knows what weird, flesh-eating chemicals are on it?"

"As long as you don't touch the..." he stopped mid-sentence. "No, forget it. Just... You ARE coming back now, aren't you?"

He said it with so much childlike innocent, I couldn't have said no, even I'd wanted to. Which I didn't.

"Only if you get rid of whatever I'm not allowed to touch," I said threateningly.

"That can be arranged," he said happily.

A thought suddenly occurred to me.

"Why were you there in the first place?" I asked out of the blue.

"Pardon me?" Sherlock asked confused.

"Ronald Adair," I explained. "Why did you get involved?"

"Well, obviously because I knew Moran was the killer," he shrugged. "Also, Mycroft asked for my help, and I found it pretty hard to say no when he had all the money."

"So that call he made this morning... That was you?"

"Probably."

"Huh," I made and looked at him blankly.

After a while the silence started to become awkward and I felt I had to say something.

"So..."

"So...?"

"Can we continue where we broke off?" I asked carefully. "You know. Before we hunted down dangerous criminals who meant to kill you."

"I'm... not sure I remember what we did before that," he said thoughtfully. "You'll have to remind me again, John."

"That can be arranged." I smirked and closed the few inches between our lips like it was the most natural thing to do.

And it was.


End file.
